The Fall
by T. Mad Hatter
Summary: It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all." Is that true? What if with your love lost, you are lost as well? --Read and review, please.
1. Disclaimer

**_THE FALL_**

**WARNING: **This story has an original character, or was intended to, so therefore tread carefully.  If you don't like original characters—although, it's not that big of a deal with this one, don't read.  Don't flame either.  

**Basic info:**

Birth name: Elizabeth Anne Whitney

Nicknames: Liz, Lizzie, Anne

DOB: April 15, 1989

POB: Armagh, Northern Ireland, Europe.

Eyes: Very pale, icy beryl around the dark pupil; slowly morphs into a slightly darker, ashen blue.  Finally, has a dark blue/gray ring around the cornea.

Hair: Dark brown, later cut jaggedly above her shoulders in a layered fashion.  Usually worn back in a tight ponytail, a dyed bang falling over her left eye.

Skin: Pale/Tan

Height: 5'9"

Weight: 112 lbs.

Blood Type: AB Negative

Religion: Irish Protestant

Ethnicity: White, Half Irish, half Greek

Personality: Brilliant and very wise--ahead of her time--but does not partake in any such affairs that would demonstrate her intelligence.  Usually is quiet and introverted, sexually driven and dormant at the same time, party-holic, shy, submissive, mysterious, clear-cut and thorough, reproachful, depressed, stoic, cocky sense of humor, witty, logical, very dry, sometimes morbid, is insane like Jack Sparrow (A/N: used as reference), etc.

In this story, Liz is 25.  She's talking about Severus, whom she had fallen for and had a short relationship with.  If you wish to ignore this, and merely read the story, 'ave fun.  Just a bit of background information so you understand why I wrote this story.


	2. The Fall

**Story: **The Fall

**Author: **Hawk Martin

**Disclaimer: **Character is mine, story is mine, but Harry Potter is not.  Insert sigh.

**Dedication: **To all those that think I should own Severus Snape.

**A/N: **One-shot story, and somewhat angsty.  This is more romantic than I usually do so enjoy.  Bwhahaha…

**Summary: **They say it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved before.  Through the eyes of one individual, it is better to have lost than loved, for love makes you human.  Does the pain when you are without it?  Does your humanity?

**Notes: **None really.

**Rating: **PG.

**Warning: **I stick with the 'Do not read if illiterate' theory.

_~"We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly"----From As You Like It (II, iv, 53-56)~_

I smoke my cigarette and close my eyes. You always insisted that it was bad for me, but I don't care now. Loving you was bad for me, as well, but you didn't seem so keen on stopping that.  
  
My apartment taunts me; hisses in frozen delight. I'm alone, so the world can take relief in the subtle fact that I'm doing my job. Protecting them, even when I'm dying myself. But it doesn't matter. You're gone, and I'm alone, so everything's the way it should be. I guess.  
  
Amazing how days like these seem to slowly melt into weeks...and weeks into months. I never needed to pay attention to time before; never need to reconcile with the bitter realization that time is all I have now. Time and drugs. Sex is obsolete and rock'n'roll is better left to the Americans and British.   
  
You were always British to me, anyway.  
  
My life is falling, slowly as every autumn leaves hits the ground with soft determination. As if they want to die, letting suicide take its path when people clear the leaves for something better--the grass, the innocent grass that lies naively underneath. What doesn't last for a lifetime needs to be destroyed.  
  
So why hasn't anyone eliminated love yet?  
  
Perhaps because it has lasted a lifetime, and more. It's lasted decades and centuries, personified in the stories and hearts of people. The very same people, mind you, that killed millions for martyred souls, for metallic truths, for no reason except the thirst to kill. Kill or be killed, as the saying goes.  
  
Ironic, because I've done both.  
  
The world is blurry now, a distant black and gray that I am forever blind to. The things that once made me laugh; made me smirk has been stolen by a God I'm supposed to thank. I am grateful for this existence. Or so I tell myself every night before the opium kicks in, before I begin to get sinfully grateful for something else.  
  
I don't hate you for leaving. I should, I know, but I don't. I didn't love you for staying once, either. Indifference has seeped into my black soul, just as love once broke it. If I'm protected, I'm inhuman; if I'm dying, I'm mortal.  
  
I don't think I will win, either way. And I don't want to.  
  
A part of me blames myself for the entire endeavor; the other part is too far gone to care. I wonder how you feel, if you can at all. Are you guilty? Not likely. You've always been practical, and it's logical to assume that you were completely innocent in this.  
  
You always were.  
  
Smoke rises gracefully to the ceiling and I sigh. It's autumn, and I'm falling.  
  
But falling for love or for death, I do not know.  
  
And maybe I never will.


	3. Author's Note

**_THE FALL_**

**A/N: **All right, this is an update about my story _The Fall_ because I have a few things to clear up.

To Choclairs—thanks for the review.  No, I don't update for reviews; it's nice to receive them, but my life doesn't revolve around getting comments about my stories.  I have my friend Emily for that.  Anyway, I'm going to further explain Liz's character in this note before I update a final chapter in this story. (Okay, I lied about the one-shot bit.)

Liz is…in a word, complex.  She's mad, but absolutely brilliant.  Her history is a sad one, and I did not do that for attention.  To further develop her as a character, I needed explanation for her fucked up ways.  Because Elizabeth is indeed that—fucked up.  I shall be brief about her past because I'm not quite up to writing it all out at the moment.  The basics—

Liz was born into a middle-class Irish family, with an older brother, younger sister, and two parents that were not meant for one another in any sense of the word.  Samuel, Elizabeth's father, was her savior—her hero in all senses of the term.  Exactly alike in every way, he and she were close because they related in thoughts and mind.  Katherine, Liz's mother, however, was not pleased to have another girl.  She needed money made in the poverty of Armagh and was not going to receive much of it in a patriarchal society.  Liz's younger sister, Sarah, was everything society wanted—pretty, smart, and energetic.  However, Sarah at a very early age took to beating her sister up out of anger.  Liz was light enough to allow this to happen, and get away with the bruises.

When she was three, Kat sent her daughter to a Catholic rehabilitation center, convinced her daughter was insane.  This wasn't a random action—Liz had been diagnosed with epilepsy, although this was a false action.  From three to five Liz stayed at Serenity Rehabilitation Institute, its name a contradiction in all terms. (I am not meaning to offend any Catholics, by the way.  Artistic license.)  Sam was falling into a deeper depression with his daughter gone, and his close friends could not help.  Ironically, Sam had befriend three boys in his youth and had stayed loyal to them all through his life—Severus Snape, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin.  While Sirius and Remus had always been close to James, they managed to fall in a platonic love with Samuel for his wit, his talent, and his endearing charm.

At the time, Severus was in a loving relationship with a woman named Ceri, who is not my character.  She's Animus et Anima Wyrmis', so talk to her if you want to know.  Liz knew the three 'uncles' and loved them; they here.  It was a good relationship.

When Liz returned from rehab, she was a very different girl.  She was a brilliant five year old who took to reading the dictionary very early one and telling the world they were full of thanotomaniacs.  (This isn't unrealistic—I was like that at 5, minus the brilliant bit.  I had no childhood.)

Mid-year, however, as Liz was 5 and a half, her parents were murdered abruptly while her siblings were out, and she was in the room.  Sam had had a questionable past with the Death Eaters, and was their kryptonite among with others.  Liz ran from the scene, leaving behind a world of Ireland and a life she had loved from afar.  Going back to rehab, she lived there quietly for 3 years until she was found again.  This is where it gets tricky.  For the sake of time, I shall just say that it came that Liz was 'bought' back from the center and came into the care of Severus and Remus until the time she was to go to Hogwarts.  Thus the change in her relationship with Severus—in the beginning, he had been much of an uncle to her, but now that there was no paternal figure in her life, he gladly took the role of a father.  And so it stayed that way until her 5th year, when everything changed.

Sarah, who had been under the pressure of popularity and former friends, took to cutting, anorexia, and bulimia.  The two sisters had never liked each other, as they hadn't grown up together and came from two different worlds.  Liz struggled to keep her sister alive, but failed as Sarah died at the beginning of 5th year.  Full of revenge and anger, Liz signed a deal with Fudge, taking the path her father once had.  She became a Death Eater for Voldemort, but also spied for the Ministry.  It was a double-edged sword and Liz was careful to keep it in its sheath…for a time.  The 15 year old girl killed literally thousands, which would make a lot of you consider that she's a horrible person.  Which, at the time, she was.  She offered no mercy, not even the children that lost their lives by her wand.

But, it was not to last.  Liz's demise ended with a trial sending her to Azkaban on charges of treason, massacre, terrorism, possible arsenal, etc.  Previously, she had become a lover to Severus, finding comfort in his 'pompous' arms.  They had a good relationship, very loving and passionate.  Now, most of you are probably blinking at me—what happened to Ceri?  Unfortunately, she died just shortly after Liz went to rehab.  I cannot say how, as it's not my place, but do note that it tore Mr. Snape up quite a bit.

So, Liz went to Azkaban.  In my RPG/story line, Azkaban has five levels instead of one grandeur room.  There's Division A, B, C, D, and E.  It's like the levels of Hell, if you've ever read Dante.  A and B are like Purgatory—not entirely the worst of crimes, but still bad enough to warrant the prison.  C is the middle—not too bad, not too good.  It's neutral.  D is for betrayers, for those that killed a street-load of people.  Sirius was there.  Now you have a scale.  E…is Hell.  It's your own personal Hell.  Its timing is different, where every month is actually a year in normal time.  Liz spent 60 months in there=60 years.  It's a hard concept, so to make it easy, just know that it was a shitload of time.  She came out a shell, returning to Severus as a different girl with nothing to strive for.

Then…the fight.  This coincides with my collab fic with Animus et Anima Wyrmis—Interitus et Superbian.  There was a painful fight, that involved Severus' yelling at Liz's cool rage.  She left the same night, going to Scotland and becoming an undercover Inspector for the same Ministry that had ruined her to begin with.

And so the fic.  Understand now?  She loved Severus, and still does.  Now that that's explained, proceed to my new fic—Severus' POV.


	4. A Catch

**Story Title: **A Catch

**Author: **Hawk Martin

**Disclaimer: **Elizabeth is mine, Severus is not. Life is unfair.

**Dedication: **To all those that think I should own Severus Snape.

**A/N: **I lied about the one-shot thing last time. Heh. This is angsty and romantic and maybe fluffy in the end. Have fun.

**Summary: **_"You once called me a love. In the beginning, it was uncle, then father, then finally lover. What are we now, with the love between us but also the hate?"_

**Notes: **None really.

**Rating: **PG.

**Warning: **I stick with the 'Do not read if illiterate' theory.

_~Love is too young to know what conscience is,  
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?_

_Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,_

_Lest guilty of my faults, thy sweet self prove._

_For, thou betraying me, I do betray_

_My nobler part to my gross body's treason;_

_My soul doth tell my body that he may_

_Triumph in love: flesh stays no farther reason,_

_But rising at thy name doth point out thee_

_As his triumphant prize.__ Proud of this pride,_

_He is contented thy poor drudge to be,_

_To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side._

_No want of conscience hold it that I call_

_Her "love" for whose dear love I rise and fall._

_The Unabridged William Shakespeare, William George Clark and William Aldis Wright, eds. (1989) Running Press.~_

I once held you in my arms.

A long time ago, you were there, warm and safe while I held you from the demons that threatened to tear us apart, to take your sanity as it had been lost in childhood. Were you ever a child? I don't know…it was never brought up when you sat there, hugging your beloved dog. How much you've grown. I find myself torn between the icy-eyed individual who roamed freely through fields of green in Ireland, and now the silent prisoner that holds an apathetic passion for my own stained hands. I love you, every side of you. Who else can say that?

Not many, I imagine.

And yet, who else can say a great many things about you? Who can say on this tortured planet that they held you in their arms; that they witnessed the bruised vulnerability you've always fought to hide? Who can say that loved you, _made_ love to you, and was still allowed in your presence? Who can say that above all, they received love in return?

For a time, I wouldn't allow myself even that idea. How could you love me when you had left? It was hatred. It was guilt. Miss Whitney…Liz…you left, but you still loved. Is that still true? I wonder, now that I am an old man. You always argued that 45 was not old, but…for me, it is ancient. I have seen too much, done too little. My scale of pertinence is beginning to tip, and you aren't there to balance it. Not anymore.

You once called me a love. In the beginning, it was uncle, then father, then finally lover. What are we now, with the love between us but also the hate? Dare I blame you? In the beginning, I would allow myself that right and many more. To hate you…it was righteous, and it grieves me to say even that. Now I realize it was not you I hated, but I. You left, granted, but I permitted you to. Perhaps it was even I who drove you away. To you, I left. To me, you left. It's a supercilious fight, one that disturbs me to this day. I miss you, the only truth in my ways. You were the only truth in my life.

This dungeon, dank and familiar, smiles at me in mocking resilience. I have lost the war, forgotten the battle. The stony bricks drip with musty sweat, and I find myself sighing. Where are you now, I wonder? In a small apartment, smoking your life away? I hope you are eating, that you are happy. In love, even. Does that surprise you? I wish you only happiness, even if it is not with me. Could it ever be?

My questions remain unanswered as work continues. Piles of parchment need to be cleared and lesson plans sorted out. My love with you ended, but life did not. How cruel this is. Even though you left, the world did not. And it haunts me every day, tortures my bitter mind and feeble body. Without your passion, I am no longer strong. However, it does not matter anymore. I have work and distant memories to keep me alive, sober in the mind if not soul.

Autumn reigns outside, leaves of crimson and gold falling. Your favorite season, as I recall. I smile briefly, though the gesture is hard and painful. Like newborn skin, the grin feels raw and vulnerable. I am not used to such a gesture, now that your witty sarcasm does not spark laughter in my life. I sigh at the thought and move to my office, standing before a swirling window. My hands behind my back, my posture straight, I remember you—your face, your laugh…your smirk. How it enchanted me.

How everything about you did.

I cannot fall out of love with you. Can you with me? It's a paradox, surely. The devious musings of such an enigma are halted by the calling of my name, quiet and mischievous. I look over, and stop…seeing you. You…neither of fantasy nor dream…you, standing before me in such a grace. I am frozen, so confused the most nonsensical Muggle novel would make more sense to me.

"Sevvy." It's one word, one loving nickname, but I am still rendered speechless. You are so beautiful, but so different. Icy eyes of lightning roam over my body, studying and taking in my rigid appearance. Your hair is shorter, with streaks of black fitting in nicely with the shining chestnut. I am captivated, in you and for you. You open your lips, chapped and bruised, and move towards me. It's slow, human. If I move now…

My anger will be quenched.

"Miss Whitney," I managed to croak out, turning to you in an authoritative way. You manage a smirk, the same that has taken me forever. I move forward, and find you safely in my arms again. This is how it was meant to be…even if so many words lay hanging in the air. You are still here, protected and I am still here, in love.

"I love you, bloody Pompous Brit," you say with a grin and I smile, kissing you. It's soft and comforting, but still passionate. It has always amazed me how our kisses can be the briefest, and still the best.

Soft skin brushes up against my calloused fingers and I grin, still. "I love you, Miss Whitney. I am still Irish, however."

I can say a great many things about you. But the greatest? You fell…but I was the one that caught you.


End file.
